The Moment by Margaret Atwood

treesonhill

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

Time

time

(internet photo)

 

rushing
rushing
escaping time

wind whistles through air
siren song accompaniment
for racing heart
chasing balance
high heels and oxfords
march swiftly
through their appointments
and agendas
trying not to step on toes
or become scuffed

time escaping
slipping by
quick sip of bitter coffee
gone cold
waiting
ignored
warmth evaporated

time slipping by without thought or care
for what we do
toys tossed carelessly in a corner
building blocks in disarray
aging parents
ignored
waiting
for a visitor

time passes no matter what
pop tarts and cinnamon buns
robust wine
talcum powder
time witnesses our fickle tastes and desires
what’s new becomes old
becomes new
becomes old again
cycle continues with each generation

we try to grasp it
save it
hoard it
yet it remains elusive
here but not here

watches and calendars
timex and rolex
bring order to our day
connect the dots
compartments
squares
little boxes to fill in
with soft leaded pencil
so changes can be erased
more time filled
no permanent marks left behind

continually chased
continually used
measured time
surrendered time
nap time
down time
it’s all about time

yours until the end of time